The Shakespearian Code
by TotallyPixelated
Summary: John and Sherlock have a case! That's all I can really tell you before ruining the plot. Written for NaNoWriMo.
1. Chapter 1

******Author's note/ warning: This story was written for NaNoWriMo and so, I will warn you in advance that in a couple of chapters go slightly overboard on description.  
That will be all.**

**Also, I will update the Phone Call when inspiration hits. I promise.**

**Chapter One**

"Get up John, Lestrade has found a body! He thinks it is suicide; I can't wait to prove him wrong!" Apparently the hours lie in John had intended to indulge in on his day off this Wednesday was not happening. He should have seen it coming really; he never got his lie in on his day off for one reason or another. Generally though, Sherlock was to blame for waking him up.

"Go 'way 'Lock. Tired. 'S my day off." He grumbled shoving his over excited partner away. Sherlock's weight lifted from the bed and there was silence for a moment. 'That was easy,' John thought to himself, closing his eyes and settling down to sleep.

"John…" The consulting detectives voice materialised by John's ear, "John, I blew up the kettle. Don't be mad." John's eyes flicked open.

"That was last week Sherlock; you are going to have to try harder than that." There was silence once more as Sherlock made his way to the foot of the bed and grabbed the end of the duvet with both hands

"Sherlock Holmes, I suggest you put the end of that duvet down now or the next murder case will be your own." John threatened as he felt the end of the duvet lift slightly and a breeze pass over his ankles and calves. Sherlock froze for a second before yanking the sheets off anyway causing John to squeal as he was exposed to the frigid morning air.

"Sherlock Holmes I am going to kill you!" John shouted, completely waking up and jumping out of bed to tackle his partner to the ground with a satisfying thud.

"But you said try harder." Sherlock protested, squirming under John "Let me up."

"Nope." John grinned, poking his tongue out at Sherlock who scowled furiously beneath him.

"John." Sherlock whined, "Let me up." John considered the action for a moment, grinning down at Sherlock before rolling his eyes and getting off his partner.

"Happy now?" John asked turning to rifle through their cupboard to find something to wear.

"Not really. Do we have to eat breakfast?"

"Yes." John replied without turning around. "We have to eat breakfast, most important meal of the day. Go and put some toast on, if you can manage not to blow up the toaster as well."  
Sherlock frowned and sighed before turning out the door of the bedroom. John smiled to himself; maybe he had a hope in hell of domesticating his partner at some point in the next century, perhaps next month he'd try and take Sherlock shopping at Tesco again. Then again, the trip to Ikea to get a new kettle hadn't been fun- CRASH- John's hopeful trail of thought finished. Please don't have broken the toaster; please don't have broken the-

"John! I have broken the toaster!" Of course Sherlock had. John sighed and made his way downstairs to the inevitable chaos in the kitchen.

Sherlock stood with a plate of toast in each hand and a dented toaster at his feet. The cable had snapped and there were crumbs scattered everywhere. Almost as if Sherlock was trying to recreate a scene from Hansel and Gretel. You did not need to be a consulting detective to know that Sherlock had turned to put the plates on the table and knocked the toaster off the work surface and sent it flying.

"I have made you toast." He offered weakly, giving John a small smile asking him to please not be angry and ban Sherlock from this apparently exciting case.

"You have also made a mess 'Lock." John sighed.

"But I made you toast with jam on it." Sherlock countered, trying to get John to forget about the toaster.

"The toaster Sherlock."

"Toast and jam? I'm sorry John." Sherlock apologised. John sighed again and took a plate from Sherlock and bit into the toast.

"You did a good job with it." John smiled but groaned internally at the thought of returning to Ikea. At this praise Sherlock beamed and ushered John into the living room.

"Sit down. I'll sort out the toaster." He directed, hurrying John out of the room and throwing away the now useless toaster and sweeping up the crumbs. Hopefully that would be enough to please John and he would not have to go to Ikea tomorrow. However, John would probably make him go because he was the one who broke the toaster.

A few minutes later Sherlock returned to the living room, pressed a quick kiss to John's lips and headed off upstairs to brush his teeth, leaving John in a surprised silence. He shrugged and made his way to the kitchen, smiling at how clean it was in comparison to the original state it was in. He shoved his plate (and Sherlock's) in the dishwasher and grumbled slightly about how his partner was incapable of loading the dishwasher (probably below his massive intellect or something) but then again he could not complain too much, he had just sorted out the kitchen. He was still coming to Ikea tomorrow though, John was certain of that. He closed the dishwasher and made his way up the bathroom.

After Sherlock had, hidden the tooth paste (twice), nudged John repeatedly to make him miss his mouth with the tooth brush (four times) he finally persuaded John that if he brushed his teeth anymore he wouldn't have any more teeth to brush the two men finally stumbled/ Sherlock practically skipped and dragged John out with him- out onto a chilly Baker Street and set about hailing a taxi.

"Where did Lestrade say he the body was?" John asked, wondering if this was going to be a long and cold morning, a pattern nearly all winter cases followed.

"Morgue, found in the Thames though. Luckily we don't have to hang around on the banks of that infernal river."

"Sherlock, that 'infernal river' is a huge point of London, it's a landmark, it is-"

"The reason we've had so many problems with suspects, they all jump in the bloody thing before I can catch them." Sherlock rebutted.

"_We_ can catch them, Sherlock." John corrected putting extra emphasis on the 'we'.

"Irrelevant. Still it's useful for some things."

"I'm not sure everyone would consider the Thames useful because it gives you cases."

"Perhaps not. But the local criminals certainly deem it useful."

"Not necessarily a good thing Sherlock." John reminded his partner as he finally flagged down a taxi and directed the driver to Saint Barts' morgue.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"So the body is through here. No identity on the girl so far and no reports of a missing person. However she was found with faux flowers threaded through her hair which I suppose helps us identify her a little." Detective Inspector Lestrade explained as he lead Sherlock and John to where Molly had laid out the body. "Though there isn't much else, she was in a white dress; at least it was white, by the time the water had got to it, it was more of a murky grey. And there's this mark round her ankle…" Sherlock instantly bought out his magnifying glass and began examining the girl's right ankle.

"Irrelevant Detective Inspector. Childhood scar I presume. Best to check with the parents. She is awfully pale, side effect of drowning, John?"

"Yes. I would say so, although, she'd have had to be fairly pale to begin with to end up like that." John agreed.

"So a suicide then?" Lestrade asked.

"Aha, no." Sherlock replied, "Look at how these flowers are tied into her hair. They have been forced in. Look, it's hard to tell because of the water but they have practically been knotted into her hair and this one still has a price tag on, she wouldn't have left it on. She was probably going out partying." Sherlock said, pointed to a faded and dirty pink flower tied into the girl's long and straggly blonde hair.

"Brilliant," John breathed, earning a proud smile from Sherlock, "Can you work out what shop the flowers are from?"

"No, the label is all waterlogged and the ink has run. But at least we know it wasn't suicide." With that Sherlock turned on his heels and strode out the door, his long coat billowing slightly and John walking quickly to catch up with him.

"So where are we investigating first?" John asked as they got into the fresh air.

"We are not."

"What?"

"You heard me John. You know how I abhor repeating myself. There's nothing we can do until we find her parents or the killer kills again."

"You think the killer will kill again?"

"It is likely- I know is sounds pessimistic but it was after all, a very elaborate murder for it to be a onetime thing. The flowers in her hair were an unnecessary detail."

"And you didn't tell Lestrade?"

"He will come to his own conclusion at some point." Sherlock replied offhandedly, "Besides, I am sure you had some kind of plan for today, it is your day off. What would you like to do?"

John thought for a moment. He didn't really want to go to Ikea, but they needed a new toaster and he was unlikely to have the chance tomorrow...

"Ikea." He said firmly, "Let's go to Ikea and replace the toaster, you broke." Sherlock groaned dramatically.

"I don't want to."

"Tough." John hailed a cab anyway and pulled Sherlock in with him.

Three hours later and they were still traipsing round the irksome furniture shop. The first hour was wasted because they couldn't find the kitchen section, the second wasted as they tried to queue to order the toaster they'd found (and agreed on) only to find that it wouldn't be in stock for another three months and the third hour was spent trying to find the kitchen section again and bickering over which toaster they would get (John wanted a normal sized silver one, Sherlock wanted the oversized expensive one "but John, I could get a whole human hand in there!" "It is a toaster Sherlock not a hand fryer). In the end, John won. Finally they found themselves in the checkout queue.

"It's a shame they don't do self-service hey John?" Sherlock teased, he was completely bored by this point.

"Not funny Sherlock."

"I think the queue at Tesco is more fun."

"You only say that because last time we were there those two women got into an argument."

"I know it was brilliant. And I can't believe the blonde one had no clue the brunette was having an affair with her husband."

"Which is of course why you decided to point it out _my love_." John's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Love you too John," Sherlock replied, pretending to be oblivious to John's sarcasm and leaning down to kiss his cheek.

"Next!" The checkout lady called and before they knew it Sherlock and John were (finally) making their way home, despite Sherlock making rude comments about the checkout lady's marriage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

Sherlock and John returned to 221B after an... Eventful shopping trip.

"I'll put the kettle on then shall I?" John said as Sherlock sprawled himself across the sofa.

"Bring jammy dodgers too!" Sherlock called after him.

"Get your own biscuits," John yelled back as he flicked the switch on the kettle and set about finding two mugs without eyeballs or fingers or some other obscure body part in them. "Sherlock, where are the clean mugs?"

"Bathroom sink!" Oh of course. The bathroom sink, where else.

"You know we own a perfectly good kitchen sink and a dishwasher right?"

"Boring." Sherlock sighed, "Hurry up."

John finished pouring the tea and bought the mugs into the next room. He placed the mugs on the coffee table and lifted Sherlock's legs so he could sit on the couch too. Sherlock immediately turned around so he could lie with his head in John's lap.

"You can't drink tea like that." John commented, taking a sip from his own mug. Sherlock grunted.  
"Where are my biscuits?"

"In the biscuit tin."

"Why?"

"Because you were being lazy and wouldn't come and get them yourself."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment before Sherlock's phone buzzed. He instantly reached for it, scanned the text and began typing a reply rapidly.

"Who is it?"

"Lestrade."

"What does he want?"

"He has found the parents. I said we would be at the Yard as soon as possible." Sherlock jumped off the couch and began throwing on his coat and scarf, "Come on John,"

"But my tea-"  
"But the case."

"Fine." John resigned, standing reaching for his coat. "You owe me you know.

"I always end up owing you."

"That's because you always end up taking up all of my days off."

"And what would you be doing instead?"

"Sleeping." John retorted.

"Wrong! You wouldn't be sleeping."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'd be bored and therefore shooting the wall." Sherlock grinned, "Come on, you love these cases really, else you'd be stuck in a mundane job, with a boring wife, in a mundane place-"

"Yes thank you Sherlock." John cut of his partner, "Let's go question these parents."

**X****X****X**

The parents of Olivia Harding (which was apparently the identity of the girl from the river) sat quietly in Lestrade's office. Clearly they were well of and had doted on their only child, she had probably been good in school and encouraged to do well by her parents. The very example of a well off upper-middle class family in London. The wife had clearly been crying and her husband had comforted her (made obvious by the damp patch on his blue shirt Sherlock noted) however now they both sat calmly and with an element of composure waiting for the next set of questions to be asked.

"They are through here. The wife is a bit emotional but she seems to have calmed down now. Do not upset her again." Lestrade directed as he led Sherlock and John to his office. Sherlock stepped inside and smiled at the detective inspector.

"Thank you. We will take it from here. Hello Sherlock Holmes sorry for your loss." Sherlock turned to the two parents and offered them his hand, completely stunning John into silence. He was never this polite, although, he hadn't had a case in weeks and this was probably just an attempt to not screw everything up.

"Oh, hello Mr Holmes, we almost didn't recognise you without your hat." The husband stood and greeted Sherlock. The smile on Sherlock's face faded slightly, John had to stifle a laugh. There was a moment's pause before Sherlock replied.

"Now we have got a few questions to ask. Firstly, who was your daughter with last night?" The calm and soothing air to Sherlock's voice vanished as he took a seat.

"Her boyfriend, he's such a nice lad though, I am sure he wouldn't do anything. They were going to a party, her best friend's eighteenth. She'd hired a boat on the Thames they were going to celebrate on that." The wife gushed.

"Brilliant." Sherlock muttered to himself, John elbowed him sharply in the side, worried the parents had heard. Sherlock shot John a look before continuing, "I need the boyfriend's name and the best friend's name."

"Kyle Dobson and Eliza Smith, I can write their addresses down for you." The husband supplied reaching for a post it note and a pen from Lestrade's desk, scribbling down the names and addresses and handing the paper to Sherlock.

"Thank you for your help." Sherlock said, rising from the chair and beginning to leave the room.

"Wait Sherlock, on your daughter's ankle she had a mark, we assume this was a childhood scar, correct?" John asked quickly.

"No, Olivia never had a scar…" The wife said slowly.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, his attention restored, "That's interesting thank you." He offered the parents one more smile before striding out the office. "Lestrade, it was murder. She had something tied to her ankle to weigh her down after she was pushed off the boat. Begin to search the Thames; I am going to speak to the boyfriend."

"Sherlock, there is no point in searching the Thames now, we'll never find it."

"Then search over the body, try and find out what was holding her down."

"Sherlock-" Lestrade tried to reason with the consulting detective but he'd already vanished from the office and was outside trying to hail a cab to take him across London.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four**

Kyle Dobson was not the kind of person you'd expect Olivia Harding to date to say the least. Sherlock had been questioning the boy for an hour by this point and was getting sick of the boy's terrible grammar, colloquial language and cluttered household. He was the very opposite of the appearance of Olivia's family. Apparently Olivia and Kyle had started dating at the end of their GCSEs and been together ever since, and, while Olivia's parents thought Kyle was a 'nice lad' it was becoming increasingly more evident to Sherlock that Kyle was not quite as nice as Olivia's parents had thought. He had clearly been involved with large amounts of underage alcohol abuse, had a smoking habit that he just couldn't seem to kick and to top it all off had been kicked out the house by his parents and was now living on benefits. Olivia had clearly just been dating him because he had the 'bad boy' appeal and it was a way of rebelling against her parents who unfortunately had to say they liked him in order to stop their daughter running away with such riff raff. At several points in the conversation Sherlock nearly revealed this point to Kyle at which point John had kicked him rather sharply in the shin, after all, Kyle looked like the kind of guy who would stick you with a knife and ask questions later and John didn't really fancy being stabbed today. Well, not ever really.

"… An' I'm sorry mate but there aint much else I can tell yous."

"Did Olivia have any enemies? People she fought with?" Sherlock asked exasperatedly.

"Nope. 'Liv was well nice, everyone got on wiv her. I guess there was this one bloke can't remember 'is name for the life of me. But he really liked 'Liv, he'd asked 'er out a couple of times but she's rejected him each time. Only 'ad eyes for me. Maybe 'e got jealous?"

"Perhaps. Was he at the party last night?" John asked, he could tell Sherlock was getting fed up.

"I couldn't for the life of me tell you. I was fairly pissed last night. I'm sure Eliza 'as a guest list." Kyle rubbed his head, "Screw this 'angover. Me 'eads poundin'"

"We'll leave you to recover, thank you for your time Mr Dobson." John cut in before Sherlock could speak again. He too was also getting fed up with this nicotine smelling house. He stood to shake Kyle's hand before dragging Sherlock from the untidy and foul house.

"To Eliza's house? We probably need that guest list, it's likely to be the most reliable source we have. I would imagine it's fairly difficult to have gate crashers when you are on a boat. Although, if she's as well off as Olivia's parents looked then I wouldn't put it past people to try." John said as they walked along the side of the Thames, Sherlock glaring into the murky depths of the water.

"Yes, though the same goes for murders. Hail a cab… I hate this bloody river."

"You will solve the case." John said soothingly, hearing the tension in Sherlock's voice.

"When do I not?"

"I know Sherlock, but you are trying to solve everything in a day at a million miles a second, not even on your best cases you do you solve things in a day." John pointed out gently. "You will do it, you always do. I have complete faith in you. Just stop chomping at the bit and getting wound up because things aren't happening as fast as you would like."

"But it is a serial killer John!" Sherlock earned them a few odd looks for his sudden outburst.

"You normally like the serial killer cases."

"But not when there's only been one kill. I have to solve it before the yard does!"

"You don't need to be so competitive all the time you know 'Lock."

"Yes but they only ask me because I'm smarter than them! If they solve it before me I have got no chance."

"They will not."

"They might."

"Can I get that on tape?"

"Shut up John." Sherlock elbowed John, chuckling slightly. "Shall we hail another cab?"

"Or maybe one day one of us could learn to drive."

"Where is the fun in that?"

"You get to speed instead of attempting to persuade the cab driver too and it minimises the likelihood of you getting poisoned by dodgy cabbies."

"Firstly, are you sure that's a good idea? And I knew which pill I was taking."

"Yeah. Right." John disagreed.

"Are we still arguing about that? I knew you'd come for me."

"We'd only just met!"

"You hit on me!"

"That has nothing to do with it and no I did not."

"Of course John."

"Do not flatter yourself."

"I don't have to you, do that for me."

"You pout if I don't."

"You like it when I pout."

"Taxi!" John hollered, ending the argument and hailing a cab.

After a half an hour cab drive and an obscenely large taxi fee the consulting detective and the doctor found themselves in a more upper class section of London, the kind of area you'd imagine Olivia's best friend to live. Clean, white, semi-detached housing, each with a small garden out the front, many framed with a perfectly painted white picket fence. Eliza Smith was every perfect teenage girl from those awful Hollywood films about teenagers in high school. She enunciated her words and spoke with clear Received Pronunciation. She dressed pristinely, applied her make-up in naturalistic amounts (she had, Sherlock observed, matched her lipstick and perfume brands and the French manicure she had applied to her nails had been done herself, evident by the barely noticeable dots of white on her finger tips), had perfect posture and was incredibly polite. She was not a killer, the girl had clearly never done a day's work in her life, bar horse riding, which she appeared to have done in gloves due to the barely noticeable calluses on the across the joints on her fingers on the underside of her hands. She led Sherlock and John through to her living room, offered them a drink each and apologised because her parents weren't in.

"I am Sherlock Holmes and this is John Watson, we're here from Scotland Yard and we are investigating the death of your friend. We'd like to know the names of everyone at the party." Sherlock said, shaking Eliza's hand and taking a seat and the large cream couch.

"I'll just go and grab my list and then we can go through this together. It's so awful that this happened to her, she was lovely. Really lovely, couldn't have asked for a better friend." Eliza dabbed gently at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief ('an embroidered handkerchief, what teenager carries an embroidered handkerchief?' John thought to himself, 'she probably hand stitched the pattern herself.')

"Thank you Miss Smith." Sherlock replied politely, waiting for her to exit the room before nudging John, "Even I was not bought up like this." He whispered, glancing around the overly clean house. Seconds later Eliza re-entered the room holding a piece of paper.

"This should be all of the names, however I fear their may have been some gate crashers, my bouncers were not brilliant at their job despite the frankly awful sum of money Mummy and Daddy paid. Still I suppose they did their best." Eliza sighed sitting opposite Sherlock and John. "Now are you looking for any names in particular?"

"Not a name as such. We were speaking to Olivia's boyfriend, he said there was a guy who fancied Olivia, and we wondered if you'd asked him to your party?"

"Oh Will- Oh what did 'Liv say his last name was. I can't remember; apologies. No I didn't invite him, though he could've easily got on the boat. There was a group on Facebook; he probably would've been able to view the date, time and location of the party. God, I feel like such an idiot." Eliza dabbed again at her eyes.

"Don't blame yourself. Was he friends with Olivia on Facebook?" John tried to soothe the sniffling teenager.

"I don't think so, I think 'Liv blocked him when he kept bothering her."

"And you weren't friends with him?" John asked, praying they could trace this suspect.

"No, 'Liv complained about him constantly, it would've seemed a bit hypocritical to go and friend him."

"And age wise was he older, younger, same age as Olivia?" Sherlock asked.

"Older I think, maybe by a year or two. I think they met at some house party a few years ago. I wasn't there so I couldn't tell you much about it. House parties are not my idea of fun."

"Understandable." Sherlock said bluntly, "I think that's all we'll need for now, thank you very much for your help." He gave a quick smile and rose from his chair, "We'll show ourselves out."

"We could always get a tube home you know." John suggested as they made their way back onto the street.

"Tedious." Sherlock replied instantly as he strode along the pavement searching for the main road.

"Sherlock, we're miles away from home, it's going to cost us a ton of money to get home if we hail a taxi." John protested.

"I hate trains; they're filled with too many stupid people."

"I suppose we could always ring Mycroft…." John trailed off.

"No. No way. We are not ringing my brother."

"Sherlock you don't have to be so obstinate. I'm just trying to find the most cost efficient way to get home. What's the problem with your brother?"

"He's my brother."

"Yes okay Sherlock I understand you and your brother have this completely ridiculous out of proportion amount of sibling rivalry and god knows I can only cope with one stroppy Holmes brother at any given time but that does not explain why we cannot call Mycroft to come and pick us up."

"Because he'll know everything and rub it in that I haven't worked it out yet."

"Are you saying Mycroft is smarter than you? Can I get that recorded so I can piss you off whenever I feel like it?"

"No." Sherlock said flatly, stopping dead and leaning against the street wall. "Let's just get a cab John."

"Fine." John scowled and flicked his foot at a pigeon that had decided to venture slightly to near to the doctor. "Let's go find a cab."

They spent two hours searching for a cab to take them home. By this point John's shoulder was beginning to ache due to the cold. Sherlock, as usual had simply made unhelpful snide comments and John was ready to give up and get the tube and leave Sherlock to find his own way home. He had mentally resigned himself to giving up when of course (in very much the same way your front door keys turn up when you've accepted you won't find them) a free taxi came down the street. They found themselves home relatively quickly (well as quickly as possible in London rush hour traffic) and John scowled and forced Sherlock to pay the even bigger cab bill. Before heading back inside to pour his old congealed cup of tea down the sink and make a new cup of tea which he might actually be allowed to finish this time.

"So how are we going to find this guy Will? He sounds like he could be a suspect."

"I don't know John." Sherlock said flatly.

"Someone must know him."

"I'm sure they do but we don't."

"We'll find him. How about we find his school?"

"If he's older that Olivia he won't be at school. God, he could be anyone."

"The cabbie from the drive home?" John suggested with a smile and earned a laugh from Sherlock's side of the room.

"Possibly, though that has already been done once." Sherlock stood up and crossed the room to share the couch with John. "Can we get takeaway tonight?"

"We had takeaway last night." John reminded Sherlock gently, "Though I suppose if you're willing to eat properly…"

"I was just going steal your noodles actually…" Sherlock teased.

"And what happens if I'd rather have pizza?"

"You'll give me the olives."

"Are you just intent on stealing my food Sherlock?"

"What's yours is mine and what's mine is yours." Sherlock replied wisely, John simply rolled his eyes.

"Of course, which is why you can steal my laptop but I can't have yours."

"Yes but I don't have a blog you like to hack which is something I can do from your laptop. I like correcting your grammar and spelling."

"More like you like to make sure I'm praising you as much as possible and not mentioning things like your lack of knowledge on the solar system."

"It's unimportant."

"I bet you weren't thinking that when you were staring at that fake painting."

"Shut up John."

"So, pizza?"

"Screw you."

"Alright." John retorted with a smirk, Sherlock elbowed him in the side.

"Aren't you funny today?"

"Oh come on you set yourself up for that."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

Needless to say their bickering went on for the majority of the evening.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

[Message Sent: 12:02]  
How's the case going?-JW

[Message Received: 12:05]  
Still nothing. I don't _want _to wait until he slips up.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:06]  
If you think about it he already has.-JW

[Message Received: 12:09]  
How so?-SH

[Message Sent: 12:11]  
He made it clear this wasn't a onetime thing.-JW

[Message Received: 12:13]  
I suppose that's something. Considering hacking Lestrade's Facebook.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:14]  
He'll kill you.-JW

[Message Received: 12:16]  
It's for a case.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:18]  
Worth a try I suppose.-JW

[Message Received: 13:01]  
Nothing.-SH

John sighed; Sherlock was going to be a pain by the time he got home. At the very least there'd be new bullet holes in the wall and the furniture would be reorganised ("But John the feng shui helps me think better this way") and at the very most… well, that wasn't something he really wanted to think about. The last time Sherlock couldn't solve a case he'd trashed the living room, bulk bought thirty packets of jammy dodgers from Costco (admittedly John was impressed Sherlock knew what a Costco was), attempted baking, drunk four shots of espresso, shot the wall and left the house to bother Molly at the lab. For a second John pitied her, but then again, she didn't have to live with the consulting five year old and put up with his tantrums daily. Of course, she didn't love him either but that was beside the point.

[Message Received: 13:10]  
I'm coming to the surgery.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:11]  
Don't you dare.-JW

[Message Received: 13:13]  
But I'm _bored_. So so bored. Bored beyond belief. The amount of bored I feel is heavy enough to crush diamonds, end wars and blow up the moon.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:15]  
Tough cheese 'Lock. If you come to the surgery and cause trouble Sarah will kill me.-JW

[Message Received: 13:16]  
But I'm missing my other half.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:20]  
*Better half.-JW

[Message Received: 13:23]  
So you like to think.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:28]  
So I know, for a genius with an abnormally large I.Q. you're making a lot of mistakes today.-JW

[Message Received: 13:30]  
Say good bye to the jumper draw.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:32]  
Do it and die.-JW

[Message Received: 13:34]  
Calm down pumpkin I'm kidding.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:38]  
Pumpkin?!-JW

[Message Received: 13:42]  
Yes dear heart. I called you pumpkin.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:46]  
Sherlock I thought we agreed that pet names were weird and we weren't going to do them.-JW

[Message Received: 13:50]  
BORED.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:55]  
Go piss off Lestrade or something.-JW  
[Message Sent: 13:56]  
In fact, ask your brother how his diet is going!-JW

[Message Received: 14:00]  
That's just immature John.-SH

[Message Sent: 14:03]  
You do it all the time when he comes over.-JW

[Message Received: 14:07]  
He's my brother.-SH

[Message Sent: 14:15]  
He kidnaps me.-JW

[Message Received: 14:18]  
Touché.-SH  
[Message Received: 14:19]  
There's been another murder.-SH

Maybe the flat would survive another day, John could only hope. Of course, knowing Sherlock, he would've trashed it/ blown it up/ burnt it down half an hour after getting out of bed. At the very least a kitchen appliance would be broken. John simply prayed it wasn't the fridge. Body parts in the fridge was one thing, body parts at room temperature was another.

[Message Sent: 14:23]  
If the flat is a tip when I get home I will not be a happy John. Also, have fun on your case. Spare the details until**_after_** I've eaten.-JW

[Message Received: 14:56]  
Oh John it's brilliant, he's made it look like she hung herself but he clearly strangled her before. Although he's hand cuffed her hands together for some reason. He's done it after she died though, else she'd have cut herself while struggling to get away. And she's been left in this disused chemical factory. It's Christmas John I swear!-SH

[Message Sent: 14:59]  
I'm glad someone's having fun. How does it help with the case?-JW

[Message Received: 15:04]  
It doesn't yet but it will, she's bound to know the killer so it'll be easy to find him.-SH

[Message Sent: 15:08]  
Well I'm glad someone is happy. I've got a ton of kids all needing their booster shots done. I've already been bitten twice.

[Message Received: 15:15]  
You chose to become a GP, you could've been my assistant but no.-SH

[Message Sent: 15:18]  
You're supposed to keep your work life and your private life separate.-JW

[Message Received: 15:22]  
Which is, of course why you dated Sarah.-SH

[Message Sent: 15:26]  
Piss off.-JW

[Message Received: 15:29]  
Love you really John.-SH

[Message Sent: 15:34]  
I'm all too aware of that. Now excuse me I have to subject myself to the tortures of giving yet another small child the chance to kick me in the balls.-JW

John turned his phone off and stepped out his office to call the next patient in watching as a small boy in a transformers t-shirt looked up from his violent game of smashing Lego brick structures up and trotted across the room towards his office. Perfect. Just perfect. Another small child who would not hesitate to bite his arm/ kick him where he really did not need to be kicked/ somehow do more damage his scarred shoulder. Either that or the child would pull on his shirt and reveal to his mother the giant love bite Sherlock had jokingly left on his shoulder a few nights ago ("No one will see it John, but I'll know it's there, you should be thankful I'm not leaving one on your earlobe!") and receive a disapproving look from the woman. Either way this was yet another appointment he was not looking forward too.

Fifteen minutes and a screaming fit from the small child later John emerged triumphant from his office with yet another small bite mark from the dangerously sharp teeth of a small boy temporarily visible on his arm. For some reason traipsing around after Sherlock in some dirty, cold, abandoned warehouse as he made snide comments at Anderson and Donovan about their "budding love affair," and making obscure deductions he appeared to just pluck out of thin air seemed pleasant for a second. Clearly prolonged exposure to small children (and possibly Sherlock) had sent John crazy. He sighed, looked at his watch and hoped that the final hour or so of work would pass quickly.

It didn't.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Sherlock had spent the past half an hour in his mind palace. The woman was in her forties. She was called Cara Lewis. She was a photographer- there was a spare memory card in her jacket pocket. The killer had known her schedule or he had tailed her. Therefore the killer must've known her. She was expecting to be alone. There was a mobile in her pocket. The mobile had no texts from anyone under the name Will. If Will was the killer they weren't close. Too many ifs and buts. Sherlock stopped thinking for a second and opened his eyes, it wasn't this dark when he'd shut them. He considered getting up to put on a light, but John would be home soon (with takeaway if Sherlock was lucky) and getting up would mean his thought process was completely over and- Oh! _Oh!_ Why hadn't Sherlock thought about it before? Neighbours! That was a hopeful possibility. Of course!

Sherlock rose from the couch and went in search of biscuits in the kitchen. He successfully found the spot where John had attempted to hide the biscuit tin from him and took three jammy dodgers to munch on as he watched crap telly. He considered making tea but he could never make it the way John did it so he ignored the kettle (stupid new thing, it wasn't as nice as the old one. He'd wired the old one to make cat noises when it finished boiling) he made his way back to the sofa, remembering to smile at… what was the skulls name this week? Ah yes Herbert. Remembering to smile and offer _Herbert _a biscuit. Not that it ever accepted a biscuit, Sherlock was fairly sure it was ignoring him this week anyway, probably because he'd shot a bullet into the wall above the mantel piece a little too close to the top of the skull's, well, skull.

He checked his watch for maybe the sixtieth time that day as he waited for John to come home. Things were never as nice on the John's work days. Partly because John got up and made the bed cold and partly because there was no one to show off in front of. And of course because John was nice. Cuddly. Warm. He wore those (that on anyone else would be considered ridiculous) jumpers. He put up with the mess. And for some unknown reason he actually loved Sherlock back. That was something. Something new, and nice. And something Mycroft didn't have which was always going to be a positive addition to the entire arrangement.

"Sherlock I'm home. God, have you been sat here with the lights off for the past hour? It's a wonder you haven't turned nocturnal. It's freezing outside; can you put the fire on? Actually, on second thoughts, I'll put the fire on. You blew up the kettle last week and that's not something I'm about to risk with the whole house. For a start Mrs Hudson would kill us." John entered the flat and hung up his coat before turning the light on (because of course, Sherlock was completely incapable when it came to doing normal things at home) and leaning down over the couch to give his partner a kiss, "I thought I hid the biscuit tin?"

"Oh John, it works in the same way as your laptop password. I will always work out the answer in the end." Sherlock grinned, "Welcome home by the way. Shall I order takeaway?"

"Nice try Sherlock, Mrs Hudson made us lasagne, I'm heating that up and we're having that. I'm impressed though, you wanting to eat two days in a row, especially on a case."

"There's not much happening right now though."

"It'll pick up."

"It better."

"It always does, don't worry Sherlock, you'll have your moment to humiliate Anderson once more."

"The killer is probably this second victim's neighbour." Sherlock mentioned offhandedly.

"Sounds like we've got our Saturday planned out then."

"Are you doing that lasagne?"

"Yes, want to give me a hand?"

"Really, you're still asking that?" Sherlock chuckled to himself, quickly followed by the sounds of John's laughter next door. John rolled his eyes as he dug the lasagne out the fridge, avoiding the tub of what he knew was not Ben and Jerry's cookie dough ice cream and actually a tub of thumbs, whether or not they were cookie dough flavoured was not a question he was going to ask, took the tinfoil of and shoved it in the oven. Oh how he loved not actually cooking. Everything was so much easier than cooking for himself and Sherlock and trying to distinguish between proper flavours and not burnt, salty, sugary and ketchup after years in the army when they were the only four flavours of food you got. And if Mrs Hudson was not their landlady she definitely made a very good second mother when it came to them both (or 'her boys' as she liked to refer to them) although they'd made it clear that she was more than welcome to become their personal chef if she felt like it (she didn't).

Half an hour later John flops onto the couch, a steaming plate of lasagne in his hand. He smirks to himself as Sherlock watches him take a large mouthful of gooey cheesy pasta and chew slowly before swallowing. He goes to take another mouthful when Sherlock ends the silence in the room.

"Where's mine."

"Where do you think Sherlock?"

"On that plate with yours?"

"Wrong." John sings out, "Try again."

"In the kitchen?"

"Correct."

"Why's it in the kitchen? I'm hungry."

"Why do you think?"

"Because you're mean?" John laughed at Sherlock's comment the consulting three year old had returned.

"Because you didn't come help me."

"I never help you."

"Hence why your food is next door." John replied with a smile. Sherlock huffed and stomped off to the kitchen to get his food.

"I hate you!" Sherlock yelled from the other room.

"Oh course you do." John called back, "It's okay Sherlock, I love you too."

"I didn't say I loved you!"

"That's fine, I know you do really."

"No I don't."

"Yeah right." John laughed.

"Boys are you alright? I heard raised voices; you aren't having a domestic are you?" Mrs Hudson poked her head round the flat door, a look of worry on her face.

"No, no we're fine Mrs Hudson, the very pinnacle of domestic bliss. Sherlock was just telling me how much he loves me, weren't you sweetie?" John yelled, a huge grin crossing his face.

"No I wasn't!" Sherlock hollered from the other room.

"Yes you were!" John called back.

"Boys, you're going to irritate the whole street." Mrs Hudson sighed, "And I thought Mrs Turner's married ones were bad."

"That's because Mrs Turner's married ones are not as happily married as she'd like them to be." Sherlock interjected.

"Yes thank you Sherlock, we'd rather you didn't ruin another marriage this month." John called back, "Honestly Mrs Hudson I promise we're fine. Sherlock's just being his usual self but it's okay I love him anyway."

"Fine John. I love you too." Sherlock offered grudgingly as he re-entered the living room with his plate of food.

"Oh Sherlock, I'm so proud of you. You managed to serve yourself dinner without being a lazy arse." John teased.

"Don't make me take what I just said back."

"I wouldn't dream of it." John laughed putting down his plate and crossing the room to kiss Sherlock's cheek, "As you can see Mrs Hudson, the very pinnacle of domestic bliss I promise." Sherlock laughed and wrapped an arm around John's shoulder making them look like a family portrait from the Victorian era; the effect however was slightly ruined by the grins across the faces of both men as they tried to convince their land lady (and house keeper, which was true, no matter how many times she denied it).

Like John said, the very pinnacle of domestic bliss.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

John was cold. Let's rephrase that. John was freezing. That was the thing about abandoned factories, they didn't do heating. It was the middle of November, it was cold! Why hadn't he considered the fact that he'd be standing in arctic conditions for the best part of two hours when he pulled on just a coat this morning. Two hours. Sherlock had better buy him a warm drink on the way home for this. On the plus side, due to the cold the body didn't smell like it would've done in summer (and even years of work with Sherlock would not get him used to that smell) and Anderson and Donovan were making less snide comments than usual because they wanted to get home as soon as possible. John had originally thought that they were going to investigate the neighbour today but no, Sherlock wanted to find more clues. Or more specifically, why the victim's hands were chained together and why she'd been left in the factory, because, while the victim's shoes were covered in dirt and mud matching the samples outside the factory, they were not covered in the brick dust outside.

Sherlock scanned the body again. He was missing something. He hated knowing that he was missing something. He just wasn't sure what yet. Obviously the killer knew these people. That was one thing linking them together, but then, why wasn't the killers mum dead? Or His father? The new victim was older than Olivia too. So age wasn't a factor. They were both female. Was gender something to be taken into consideration? And then, there were the places they'd been left, both completely different, but, for some reason Sherlock couldn't bring himself to believe that, that wasn't important. Finally there were the ways they'd been killed. Both used suffocation as a means to kill, but there was a big difference between the two. The first death had been a warm up; the killer only had to be there long enough to push the victim off the boat with the weight tied to her ankle. The second death required the killer to feel what he was doing. The pulse rate slowing. The panicked and shallow breaths becoming more and more panicked until they stop. Until everything stops. Sherlock gave a slight shudder, and then the handcuffs. They'd be symbolic, like the flowers. But what for? Handcuffs could mean any number of things, the most obvious crime and punishment, war, BDSM? Sherlock had no clue about the flowers either. There was the language of flowers, spring, and the female reproductive system. All perfectly viable yet almost as irrelevant as the last idea. He was missing something!

"Sherlock, you've been pacing in silence, take a break." John's soothing voice cut into Sherlock's thoughts and stopped them racing, "Got anything new?"

"Nothing at all." Sherlock muttered.

"It's fine. Stop stressing, we should do something tonight. I think your brother mentioned having spare tickets for an amateur production of Romeo and Juliette which we could steal from him if you'd like? Or-"

"Say that again."

"Say what again."

"The play what was it."

"Romeo and Juliette."

"That's thingy."

"What do you mean 'that's thingy'?"

"Marlowe!"

"Shakespeare Sherlock. Not Marlowe, he did Doctor Faustus."

"Oh him, he's not nearly as interesting." Sherlock shooed John away. "Oh that's genius."

"What is?"

"Ophelia!" Sherlock shouted, dashing off in search of a taxi.

"And there he goes." John rolled his eyes and turned to Lestrade, "I should run after him. See you later."

"Don't forget to tell him the first victim's name was Olivia." Lestrade called after John.

"I won't!" He laughed, "See you later."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The two men sat in silence, Sherlock deep in thought and John simply watching the world fly by the windows of the cab. John considered opening his mouth to speak, although, he was fairly sure Sherlock would yell at him if he did that and so avoided opening his mouth. He attempted to entertain himself through some other means. He drummed his fingers up his legs, readjusted his coat and counted yellow cars until the silence really started getting to him.

"Sherlock why were you going off about Ophelia? The victim's name is Olivia."

"No John, he's mimicking Shakespeare deaths. The first one is Ophelia from Hamlet. He wanted it to look like a suicide, it also explains the flowers. In the final part of her madness she hands out the flowers to the king, queen and her brother, hence why they were tangled in her hair. It's also why she had to drown, Ophelia falls in the lake. This one is a little more complicated and I can't remember which play it's from which is why we're going home and I'm borrowing your laptop."

"No. Use your own."

"Yours is nicer."

"I don't care; I'm getting fed up with you hacking my laptop."

"It wouldn't be hacking if you just told me your new password each time."

"I'm not telling you this one."

"Oh? Why's that, is it embarrassing?" Sherlock teased, John sat in silence trying not to blush. "It is isn't it? Let's see… sherl0ck is sexy? I want Sherlock's sherc0ck? Sherl0ck H0lmes get in my red pants? Oh I know, it's I love Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock laughed, John didn't reply and blushed a vivid shade of red. "Oh my god it is isn't it! John you teenage girl you!"

Sherlock began chuckling uncontrollably, his face also turning a vivid shade of red, but not for the same reasons. In between body shaking laughs Sherlock gasped out several sentences that sounded like they involved the words "Adorable" and "Cute". John stretched over and hit Sherlock fairly gently a few times in a feeble attempt to get him to shut up.

"Is this going on the blog?" Sherlock asked, a gleeful expression on his face, "Can we please involve this fact when we write up the case?"

"When I write up the case. And no we can not!" John muttered, growing redder by the second.

"I write up cases too!" Sherlock argued."

"No Sherlock, you sit in the background reminding me not to forget to mention how 'spectacularly ignorant' you are,"

"I help, besides, you frequently insult me, and I'm only reminding you not to forget."

"Firstly, no. You don't. Secondly, I called you spectacularly ignorant once. Once. And that was because you had no basic knowledge of the solar system!"

"It was irrelevant!"

"It wasn't and you know it Sherlock. Also, how on earth did you come to the decision that Marlowe was more interesting that Shakespeare?"

"The death John, Marlowe's death. It's ambiguous, so many possibilities. Was he murdered, was he accidentally stabbed in a pub brawl or was it assassination? No one knows John! There is the constant possibility that he may have been murdered or assassinated."

"Of course, he's interesting in the sense of a cold case. For a moment I almost believed you admired his work from a literary point of view. How ridiculous of me."

"In the sense of a murder case, Shakespeare also becomes interesting. We have to consider the possibility that Shakespeare was Marlowe's murderer, despite how unlikely it is. If we were to consider his motive there is the possibility that Shakespeare murdered Marlowe. For instance, Shakespeare was greatly influenced by Marlowe and became the next large play write after Marlowe's death. Was he simply removing the competition, was he jealous of Marlowe's talents, or was he in fact completely innocent? It's most likely he's innocent due to Marlowe's religious beliefs, or lack of them, however there is always a possibility. We will never know!"

"There's no need to make it sound so dramatic Sherlock."

"Ah but you have to admit it's a half decent case John."

"Only a 'half decent' case? From the way you were raving on about it I was going to put it at, at least a ten. Unfortunately though, it's a cold case, and unlikely to be one that you will never solve."

"You doubt my abilities John."

"Maybe." John smirked, flicking a look at Sherlock. "What are we doing when we get home?"

"Trying to find this Shakespeare play. If anything it will at least help us work out the killer's motives, although, it's unlikely we'll be able to predict his future movements it will at least help up a little bit."

"Any idea on where we're starting?"

"No clue."

"So you don't have every Shakespeare play memorised in your head?"

"John, I thought we established, I'm not a fan of Shakespeare in a literary sense, maybe as a murderer, but other than that not at all."

"Well those handcuffs are likely to represent something, maybe crime and punishment?"

"Brilliant John."

"And if that doesn't work we should always look into the history of the abandoned factory. That may also be symbolic of something."

"Also brilliant." Sherlock complimented, John shot him a grin.

"I do have my moments you know."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Pages turned. Thousands of tabs were opened on internet browsers. Google searches were made. The infrequent sound of a key board clacking. The occasional groan from either Sherlock or John as yet another hopeful lead got away from them yet again. The one subject beyond Sherlock's reach. Well, that and the solar system. They'd been at work for almost an hour and still nothing. Most of the time Sherlock would at least find a half decent lead in the first five minutes of investigating and then continue to search it through the night. But today, nothing. On this case, barely anything. Sherlock was disheartened. It was rare that such a thing would happen, but it wasn't completely unheard off. John failed to keep up with occasional shout of character names or even seemingly random words coming from Sherlock's side of the room.

"Have you looked up the factory yet?" John asked, giving up on yet another useless website.

"No."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know."

"Why?"

"BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A CLUE THAT'S WHY!" Sherlock yelled across the room, throwing his book down (where he'd suddenly gotten a copy of Hamlet John had no idea) and pacing angrily back and forth across the living room, his heavy footsteps making a barely satisfying thud.

"I'll see if I can find it then." John said under his breath, "Do you know what the factory made? I'll do some searching."

"Chemicals." Sherlock huffed, folding his arms and turning to face the wall on the couch. Sulking.

John did a couple of quick searches (well, as quick as you can get when you type slowly) and managed to come across a website called derelict London. He clicked on the link and found the page for disused chemical factories, finally coming across the right one.

"There's not much you can say about it except that it went into disrepair after the Second World War." John said, unsure as to whether or no Sherlock was actually speaking. There was silence for a moment.

"Oh. OH._ Oh!" _You could almost hear the italics in Sherlock's voice, "Oh that's good. War crime John. War crimes. Google that!"

"There's quite a few. Oh there's one I did at school, king… King something or other."

"Lear John, Lear."

"What?"

"King Lear John."

"Yes that's it. His daughter, Cordelia was hung in her cell after Lear lost the battle against Cornwall. The factory's history is obviously representative of the lost in battle, after all, it closed just after World War Two. The hand cuffs show imprisonment and she was strangled and then hung because the killer knew it would be quicker. Maybe he was strapped for time of maybe he just didn't want to have to fight with her in order to get her into the noose. Erm… Am I missing anything Sherlock? Normally you would have stopped me by now." John trailed off, Sherlock was looking at him with an intense amount of pride on his face.

"Actually John, those points are all perfectly viable. Tomorrow we interrogate the neighbours I promise."

"Do we really want to question people on a Sunday?"

"At least we'll be fairly sure that they'll be in."

"Fair point Sherlock." John replied, yawning. "Jesus I'm tired. I think I'm just going to go to bed. Are you coming?"

"Maybe in a little bit." Sherlock replied flashing John a quick smile, "I'm not really tired yet. You know how cases get."

John nodded and headed upstairs to get ready for bed, he stripped of his clothes and slid into bed, not bothering with pyjamas or a shower, he was too tired. He lay down in bed, making sure to take Sherlock's pillow instead of his own so that he could smell his partner as he drifted off to sleep. Somewhere downstairs Sherlock had picked up his violin and had begun playing a slow, sweet tune, with long legato bowing and a soothing melody. John quickly identified this as what Sherlock called 'John's Lullaby." It was frequently played after and during John's nightmares in an attempt to soothe him. Though, now a days, as John's nightmares became less frequent the violin piece was more regularly heard when Sherlock was trying to be romantic on John's birthday and at Christmas. Of course, the piece also appeared on the occasional evening (such as now) when John was just tired. It was Sherlock's way wishing John goodnight when his mind was otherwise occupied. John also frequently requested that Sherlock played it for him in those rare quiet moments secretly loving the fact that Sherlock had written a piece especially for him.

Sherlock played a little louder, making sure that the notes carried from the thin metal strings on his violin up the stairs and danced towards John's ears. His hands brushed familiar well-worn wood, feeling he familiar grooves of consistent practice and playing, the spots where the varnish had worn away slightly or where hands and finger tips touched onto smooth wood, eroded gently over the years. The bow dragged carefully across the strings, occasionally slowing as he held the lower notes, the slight vibrato filling the air as the notes varied minutely, not even semi-tones apart. His long pale finger tips played an effortless and flowing game of twister across the strings touching for seconds on all of them, occasionally lingering for longer on a one over the other as a snippet of a scale was played. The way Sherlock played almost made the instrument seem alive and Sherlock's old teacher had often likened the instrument's bow to that of a beating heart, (Sherlock's mother had insisted on employing an experience violin enthusiast as Sherlock's teacher, insistent that if Sherlock was to learn how to play, he'd learn to play like a lover of the instrument). In the same way that a human heart keeps the body going and is often associated with controlling emotion the bow keeps the music alive and moving (and while it is possible to use pizzicato to keep the music going, it never flowed quite as well as slurred bowing) but it also controlled the emotion of the piece, ranging from quick upbeat happy notes to long slow tragic ones.

Once Sherlock was certain John was asleep he switched from tune to tune for a few hours, making sure to play the gentle, more serene ones in order to avoid waking John. The music slowed and intoxicated his mind, drowning out the loud rushing thoughts that were all too eager to keep him up at night, tossing and turning, trying to escape the constant babble of possibilities in a murder case or a the many qualities of keeping bees or how to cook pasta, open a champagne bottle correctly, ride a bike, swim, fish, the list could continue for hours. The violin cleared that. Once Sherlock was completely certain his mind had slowed enough he followed in John's now cold footsteps, up the stairs and towards the bedroom, ready to sink into the mattress under warm covers.


End file.
